Page 77 of Sapphires and Snakes
But I hold myself rigid. I scan her from head to toe, still not believing all that blood isn’t hers. And moreover, marveling at her. Zarina Gallo, the mafia princess who single-handedly took down the most powerful prince in the city with nothing but a knife, a gun, and a lethal tongue.
Fuck, I want to kiss her.
She opens her eyes and meets mine. They’re sunken in, like she hasn’t been sleeping or eating or both. Her cheekbones are so prominent, they cut straight through my chest to my heart. The blood on her neck, chest, and robe is starting to dry and flake away, a crimson facsimile of the snow still falling outside.
“Six-to-one odds, huh?” she snorts.
I shrug. “Close enough.”
She nods, frowning at the men, or lack thereof, in the foyer and beyond. Then she turns back to me and rests her head against the door. “Why are you here?” she asks. And it’s not accusing, not loaded with secondary meaning, but simply bone-achingly tired.
It reminds me of the night of our engagement party, when I helped her into the shower, washed her clean of a night full of misery and fear, and put her to bed. I wish I could scoop her up now and do it again. But I lost the privilege of touching her the moment she uncovered my lies. The moment I told them in the first place.
And now is not the time to hash anything out. So I settle for the least vulnerable truth. “We had a deal.”
Her expression shifts into skeptical annoyance. “Why are you here?”
I want to lower my gaze, but I fight the urge, and instead peel back another layer. “I couldn’t let you face it alone. Not after…”
“After you made me face it alone?” she finishes for me.
I clench my jaw in frustration at my fuckups, at her reading me so well. We stand twenty feet apart, separated not only by the distance, but also all the hurt we caused the other. Me more than her. We have to talk about it and process it and figure out where we can go from here. I know that. And yet, all I want to do is toss it all aside and cross the stretch of nothing and everything between us to cup her face in my hands and rest my forehead against hers.
Maybe it shows, or maybe, in my most hopeful imaginings, she feels the same, because her expression softens. She pushes off the door and closes half the length between us. I wish it was all of it.
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
“For what?” I ask.
She glances to the men bustling about the space and back to me. They don’t yet know that they’re no longer part of a Cardinal Family, that the Gallos are no better than a gang now. And it’s not the time to reveal it.
“For following through,” she says.
I lower my gaze finally, unable to accept her words. “I don’t think I deserve gratitude for that.”
“Yeah.” Her voice is light. It urges me to look up again and catch the teasing lilt of her lips. “You should probably be thanking me.”
I return her ghost of a smile, the banter we so easily shared before like a balm between us. I want so badly to tease her back, but I refrain. It doesn’t feel right. Not yet.
“I should,” I agree. “All I did was follow directions. You orchestrated everything.” I infuse my voice, my face, with sincerity. “You saved yourself, Zarina.”
“I did, didn’t I?” She bites her lip, like she can hardly believe it herself. I don’t blame her. It was hard-fought and hard-won. She hugs her arms around her torso. “Not too shabby for a spoiled princess.”
A soft smile stretches my lips. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re a queen, through and through.”
She huffs a laugh. “And don’t you forget it.”
“I won’t.” There’s no way I ever could.
We stand there, separated by the space we created between us, now filled with dust and debris. The gold in her brown eyes seems to glow brighter, like she’s reflecting the sun. The sight floods me with relief, my muscles sagging. She’s still Zarina. And though this isn’t over, for now she’s safe from the Accardis, from marrying Marcus.
The yearning swirls in my toes, rising up my legs. There is so much to say, it piles on my tongue. I swallow it down and try not to choke. “What now, then?”
“I should check on Father, make sure he’s not dying.” She glances around the foyer. “And then a shower, food, and sleep.”
“And the family?” I ask.
She squints at me, at the able-bodied men gathering the few dead onto tarps. Her chin lifts in that way I’ve seen over and over again—the way of a queen. “It’s none of your business what happens with the family, Tamayo.”
